


Carre d’Agneau

by Noteilus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Blood and Gore, Child Murder, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 04:00:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16110353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noteilus/pseuds/Noteilus
Summary: A particularly violent crime scene pops up in ordinarily quiet Algoma, Wisconsin. Police have given their own profile and declared it the beginnings of serial killings, but the FBI has sent a reluctant and ill Will Graham to be sure. Doctor Lecter was sent to make sure Will would stay mentally sound for the duration of the investigation.Hannibal has more intentions to his tagging along than Will's well-being.





	Carre d’Agneau

**Author's Note:**

> This is a filler fanfic for roughly the middle of season 1. It's spoiler-free if you haven't seen all of season 2, but tread carefully. I'll likely sprinkle a few minor spoilers in future chapters when/if I'm ever brave enough to post them.

“Sorry, sir, but you can’t cross this line.”

“Jack Crawford sent me,” Will stated plainly, not making eye contact with the stocky older man. Instead, he glanced backward at his psychiatrist. He lifted his temporary badge up to display it as proof, and the man scrutinized him harder.

“What’s Jack Crawford doing sending a fake FBI member out here? Is he too good to send the real thing?” 

“Something like that.” He cleared his throat quietly and lifted the tape to step past. He looked back at the officer (his silver-plated name tag read “Sean”), noting the disbelief and annoyance on his face. “Can you clear everyone out? Talking and flash photography makes it… hard to think.”

As though offended by Will, Sean stalked down the other side of the police tape to one of the members of the forensic team who’d stepped out to vomit beside the road. She wiped her mouth and tongue with a tissue, Will unfortunately noticed, and as the chief directed her, she went back into the house. After a few minutes, all twelve of the team was outside, many looking a translucent green. All eyes were on Will.

Will stepped toward them for gloves and shoe covers, and after he’d asked and taken up the glove box to help himself, one of them warned, “Never seen anything like that in my life. If you feel nauseous, come out here to throw up.” She then let her long chestnut hair fall around her shoulders, only to pull it into a taut ponytail all over again. He glanced toward the house that she seemed to avert her eyes from at any opportune moment.

After he’d suited up and heeded the warning, Will let himself into the house. Immediately, his nose was assaulted by the stench of blood and vomit. His own stomach twisted up and he felt grateful he hadn’t had breakfast despite Hannibal’s persistence. Even though there was nothing to be seen in the entryway, he knew the rest of the downstairs rooms would be crime scene after crime scene.  
A single father and his two children, murdered in their home on a Thursday afternoon. 

Moving through the entryway, Will felt all the more sickened at the sight of the kitchen, and what he could see of one of the kids’ bedrooms: chunks of flesh and bone were everywhere. There were pieces of skin and fingers nailed onto the walls, leaving vertical drip-trails of blood. An eyeball had been nailed by its optic nerve onto a cabinet just above where what looked like teeth were piled on a blood-painted countertop. There were too many there, Will noted morbidly, for it to have come from only one mouth.

Will wasn’t sure he wanted to get inside this person’s mind, but, with breath held, he closed his eyes and began to work backwards after seeing the evidence in the first room. The kitchen looked like what he imagined a kitchen in Hell would look like, and, even so, it was easy to see where the wrath had originated. He followed the blood trails into one of the kids’ rooms, keeping beside them for the sake of not tampering with evidence, and it was all he could do to keep his coffee down.

There were limbs— sawed so they were like darkened, purpling logs—, framing the child-size bed. They’d been too difficult to dispose of, so they’d been arranged in a different way. His eyes lifted to the wall to see poorly cleaned ribcages were hung from what looked to be yarn. The smallest hurt him to see— the child was likely no older than 12, judging from the small size of the ribs and the vertebral column pinned to the wall. His eyes closed; his skin had gathered a thin film of sweat from his forehead to his back and he felt unnaturally cold. He wanted to go back to Wolf Trap, to hide away from all of this. But it was as if Jack was gripping his skull and forcing him to look at it, without even being there.

Will needed an anchor before he got into the mindset of this murderer, but his stubbornness prevented him from dragging Hannibal, a man who hadn’t signed up for any of this either, down along with him. So he wavered, walked back to the house entrance, and began to walk through.

His eyes followed the evidence, and he stepped toward the kitchen. Since he was alone, he mumbled to himself in lieu of merely thinking, finding the quiet speaking to be more helpful when his mind ached.  
“I knocked on the door. They were familiar with me, naïve to the fact they’d upset me in the most unforgivable way.” Will glanced toward a smeared part of the wall, a few speckles giving away what had really happened. “They didn’t realize I was armed until I’d shot one of them. From the height, it was the father. How the boys screamed… and that wouldn’t do.” He spun on his heel, looking to the chair that had been tucked in where none of the others were. “The oldest child was next. He would have called the police, and we couldn’t have that, not on this spur-of-the-moment spree.” 

Will looked to all the other evidence. All of the other numeric stands shouted at him to mind them, but were for the most part ignored. He wandered to the bedroom and stared once again at the ribcages, shuddering as the smell got to him all over again. “The youngest runs,” he murmured, crouching down to look under the bed. “Hides himself away. He’s the one I’d intended to punish, but now, I don’t have the fire in me anymore. I shoot him once. All of them gone, just like I wanted, but now…” His body shifted and he stood, looking at the grotesque display on top of the child-size bed sheets featuring bright yellow and blue dinosaurs. “Now, I need to hide who I am. I need to create evidence by destroying evidence, to lead the police and the FBI away from me… I need to turn them into a mockery of my initial motive, to hide the spatters, to hide the bullet wounds best I can. This is my design.” 

He looked over to the vomit, off by the bed post, and grimaced. “I couldn’t stomach that I’d killed them once it was done… In my anger, I’d forgotten I had a conscience.” The urge to vomit rose up his throat, but with another shudder, he swallowed back the urge for a second time.

It was easy to lose himself, and Will searched the home for the bathroom. Once he’d found the only one, he stepped carefully inside. His gloved hands initially moved to open the cabinet door from the underside, but then paused when Will spotted it. A small, rust-colored smear, barely visible as he opened the cabinet door. Inside, along with bleach, hair dye, mouth wash, and a plunger, was a near-empty box of latex gloves and an empty box of shower caps. “No fingerprints. No hair, so I’m not bald or balding. I’m young and I have a few kids of my own…”

After pushing the door closed with his palm, Will looked to the pile of parts and the hanged ribs in the bedroom again, and hopefully for the very last time in person. “Dismantled and broke up the pieces of the bodies in here. Created an abysmal abstract art piece in the hopes of confounding the police. And Christ, it worked…” 

Will couldn’t exit fast enough, his face pale and sweating, curly hair clinging to his damp face. He met the police chief outside, and they exchanged very brief, mutually concerned eye contact. Will started speaking, voice low but assumptively directed at the chief. “You’ll be looking for someone in his late 30s, early 40s. Someone with one or two kids, definitely another single parent. This isn’t the work of a serial killer, just someone who… snapped and then tried to hide his tracks.”

“How do you figure it isn’t the start of a serial killer?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck and scrutinizing every inch of Will Graham’s face. Will took it as an opportunity to search for Hannibal behind the yellow tape, and, upon finding Hannibal, mentally mapped an escape route once the evidence interpretation Jack put him up to was done. “I’ve studied serial killers,” he continued. “This is sloppy and experimental. They’re working out their favorite methods on the victims in there.”

His silence prompted the other man to continue speaking, and Will felt that typical determination to outdo the FBI radiating from him. “They must have enjoyed doing it or they would have stopped. Nobody decorates two rooms with viscera as a chore. ” 

Will huffed through his nose. Smirked. “That’s exactly what he counted on you to think.”


End file.
